


Irreconcilable Sartorial Differences

by Elenchus



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 15:47:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenchus/pseuds/Elenchus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marius Pontmercy purchases a new hat. Courfeyrac finds he cannot approve the decision. Haberdashery disaster ensues. </p><p>Guest-starring all of Courfeyrac's extremely unhelpful friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irreconcilable Sartorial Differences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pligeons](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=pligeons).



> Please forgive the slight inexactitude with timelines and Marius’ living arrangements; liberties were taken and I’m not particularly sorry.

“Hold still, Marius – there’s something vile perched atop your head! Judging from the coloring, it’s probably poisonous.”

Marius, bless his kind and trusting heart, really did freeze for a moment before he took in the thrust of Courfeyrac’s jest. His face fell a little, but he rallied admirably.

“You don’t like my new hat? The seller told me this style was quite in vogue in London.”

It was roughly the size and shape a hat should be, Courfeyrac would concede that much to it. But it was made of straw and dyed a garish blue, and the maker had affixed a golden buckle to the band, and a huge yellow flower made of flimsy fabric that rustled in the wind. It was, in a word, awful. Perhaps a true eccentric could have worn it with flair, but on somber, severe Marius, who always dressed in black and trained his gaze on the streets or the heavens, it looked beyond ridiculous.

“There is a reason, my dear, that the English take their fashion from us and not the other way round,” said Courfeyrac firmly. “At the very best, watching the English will get you our styles five years late. At the very worst:” here he gestured at Marius’ head, “this.”

Marius’ nostrils flared a little, as they often did when he was put out. Courfeyrac found it indescribably charming. “All the same, you must say that I will make an impression. I- I would very much like to make an impression today.”

Marius was no doubt planning a rendezvous with the mistress Courfeyrac had lately begun to suspect him of seeing. That made his moral duty to interfere all the stronger.

“Marius, there are impressions and then there are _impressions_. Trade hats with me; it will be much safer.” Courfeyrac had no intention of donning the travesty currently perched atop Marius’ head, but he could take it and place it some place safe. Like the bottom of the Seine. Or their fireplace.

“I certainly shall not. I-“ A strong gust of wind blew past at that moment, snatching away both Marius’ next words at the offending piece of headwear. It blew briefly past Courfeyrac, and then into the street where it was promptly crushed by an oncoming carriage.

“My hat!” cried Marius with real distress.

“Good riddance,” said Courfeyrac with equally real sincerity. “My friend, the fates have done you a favor today.”

Marius looked at Courfeyrac balefully. “You might at least have tried to catch it,” he said, voice heavy with reproach. “I sold my other to purchase it, and you know I cannot easily afford another.”

Courfeyrac felt a stab of guilt. He likely could have rescued the thing if he’d had a mind to, and he knew well how dire the state of Marius’ finances was. “Then I shall buy you another as apology. And it will be very smart and dashing, just as I am.”

Marius refused to smile. “You know I never ask for charity, Courfeyrac.” He sighed, deep and morose. “I suppose I shall have to be seen only indoors until my next payday. It is a pity; I love to walk.”

The stab of guilt struck again, intensified. “If you will not let me buy you one, then take one I already own, or at least borrow one for the time being.”

“I suppose you mean well, Courfeyrac, so I will not be angry with you.” Marius’ trembling lip suggested that this was not fully true – Courfeyrac had made a study of the effects of Marius’ moods on the parts of his face, and considered himself quite the leading expert on the subject. In his learned opinion, Marius was sincerely vexed. “I may be poor, but I shall keep my dignity and wear only what I can rightfully claim as my own.”

“Well then,” said Courfeyrac. And because he could not conceive of anything else to add, he said it again for effect: “Well then.”

Marius looked thoroughly miserable, and Courfeyrac resolved to do what he could to cheer the poor fellow. As his elocutionary powers had failed, he would have to try something else.

* * *

As he often did in times of trouble, Courfeyrac took the step of consulting his friends.

He began, by habit, with Enjolras, whose advice was rarely good but frequently enlightening.

“I do not see that you wronged Pontmercy,” Enjolras said gravely. “You are under no obligation to him. Only pray, watch that his next purchase is not a bicorne. I cannot advise you beyond that; I do not look well in hats and make a practice of not minding them.”

Courfeyrac had yet to see Enjolras not look well in _anything_ , but he took the implied dismissal and moved on to Combeferre, who offered him a simple and stylish black top hat to bring to Marius. Courfeyrac was tempted, until Combeferre cheerfully confessed that it had come from the corpse of his latest dissection subject. Courfeyrac beat a hasty retreat from his apartments as well.

Bahorel’s suggestion, though less morbid, was slightly less practical: “Offer to wrestle and let him strike you once or twice in the bout. He’ll feel better after sparring, and he’s such a skinny thing you’ll hardly feel it.”

Given that Marius apologized for minutes on end when he so much as bumped into Courfeyrac in their hallway, Courfeyrac thought that plan unlikely to succeed. He thanked Bahorel for his idea, and went on to find someone else.

Neither Lesgle nor Joly was at home, but Courfeyrac found them both at the Corinthe listening to an impromptu lecture on the follies of man from Grantaire. Grantaire’s speeches were rarely worth much and likely to go on for hours if not disrupted, so Courfeyrac felt no qualms about stepping in to explain his situation to his friends.

“Give him one of yours,” suggested Bossuet. “That is what my dear Joly always does when I lose a hat or coat.”

“Yes, and my closet is much the poorer for it,” agreed Joly. “But do not wait long – I have often observed that Marius is of a sickly disposition and like to catch cold with an uncovered head. You had best give him something warm.”

“Marius won’t take anything of mine,” Courfeyrac said with a sigh. “I’ve already tried. He won’t let me buy him anything either. He is entirely stubborn. It is one of his charms.”

“I am astonished to hear that Marius has any charms at all,” said Grantaire, who as a rule disliked any conversation he was not a part of.

“Better make it a cap,” Joly urged, completely ignoring Courfeyrac’s lament. “I am not sure I have ever seen someone quite so wan as Marius who was not yet a corpse.”

“Don’t you think Enjolras would look well in a cap?” said Grantaire speculatively.

Courfeyrac bid them all farewell.

He did not consult Prouvaire – experience suggested that Jehan would have though Marius’ hat too restrained and suggested the addition of more flowers. If the wretched thing had survived, Courfeyrac would have appealed to Marius make a present of it to Prouvaire for his next art project. The left Feuilly.

“Make him a new one,” said Feuilly.

Courfeyrac blinked in surprised. That idea had no so much as occurred to him – probably because it was absurd. “What?”

“Marius is proud,” said Feuilly. “He won’t take anything he thinks is charity. But handmade presents are hardly charity, and he’s too polite to refuse such a gift.”

Feuilly was entirely right on both points, but, “My dear fellow, I’m a lawyer, not a haberdasher! I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

Feuilly fished around in his bag and pulled out a battered flier. “I help teach a class in sewing down at the orphanage once a week. To help the girls there find honest work once they’re old enough to leave.”

Courfeyrac eyed the flier with suspicion. “Does one sew a hat?”

“One certainly doesn’t grow them on trees,” Feuilly replied mildly. “It depends upon the style, but it’s enough for something simple. And enough if all you want is to show sympathy to Marius.”

“That and to ward off the flux. Joly was quite adamant.”

“Then bring your own fabric. And a donation. I know you’re good for it.”

Courfeyrac could hardly argue with that.

* * *

Feuilly was an excellent teacher, provided you could catch him. Courfeyrac supposed there were skills Feuilly lacked, but he had yet to find one, and the man had an inexhaustible store of patience despite seeming to work or study at least 30 hours per day. Feuilly’s guidance and suggestions had left him confident as he cut into an old, no longer fashionable coat he had sacrificed for the cause.

He had felt a little less confident as he had begun to stick the bits together later – somehow there wasn’t enough fabric _here_ , and there was too much _there_ , and there were whole pieces he had no memory of cutting. Doubtless Feuilly would have known what those were meant for, but Courfeyrac couldn’t justify asking for more of his time. He would have waited a week until his next class, but Marius’ moping had only increased over the past few days and Courfeyrac wished to offer the olive branch as soon as possible.

Not that Marius appeared angry with him, at least not once his initial upset had worn off, but Courfeyrac did hate to see him sad. Marius’ smiles were a delight, and Courfeyrac missed them.

It was unfortunate, then, that the object he was making was unlikely to produce anything but groans. He held it up to the light for critical examination and groaned a little himself.

Joly, sitting beside him, joined his examination. “It seems a bit...peaked,” he ventured at last. “And a tad bit uneven.” That was a vast understatement on both counts, but Joly had a kindly disposition. “Perhaps you’re attempting the Phrygian style? I must say, the color’s somewhat unorthodox.”

Grantaire gave a hoot of laughter. “Perfect for Marius then – his partisanships are more poorly stitched together than Courfeyrac’s seams. But come, let us make him a Paris and see whether he woos his Helen any more artfully in costume.”

Bahorel plucked the would-be cap out of Courfeyrac’s hands and turned it round once. “I can fix it,” he said, all confidence. “Lend me your needle and some pins. It won’t take ten minutes.”

Courfeyrac crushed temptation. “No, I’m afraid I must do it myself. Otherwise it might not count. Marius can be quite particular.” But then, perhaps Marius would prefer something recognizably a hat, even if Courfeyrac hadn’t done the work himself. Perhaps Marius would not care even one bit that Courfeyrac had meant to show his friendship in such a way.

He was on the point on changing his mind, but before he could retract his words Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder and declared, “Quite right! Quite right, my friend! Your dedication is admirable and I salute you.” There was certainly nothing Courfeyrac could say to that, so he returned to sighing over his cloth monstrosity and trying to tame it with added stitches.

* * *

He was still sighing when he returned to his rooms soon after. He slumped down into his favorite chair and eyed Marius’ empty one. It was quite unaccountable how much more pleased he would have been were Marius seated there next to him. It was not as though he suffered any lack of amiable companionship – indeed, he had the best friends in the world, and had just spent several hours in their delightful company. But that did not in any way lessen his desire to see Marius’ face, to chat with him, to tease him a little perhaps and watch him blush. Marius was not more clever than his other friends, nor more handsome, nor more thoughtful, nor even more gentle. To hear him described, Courfeyrac would have thought him altogether ordinary. And yet here he was, sighing as wistfully as one of the maidens in Prouvaire’s purpler poems, simply because altogether-ordinary Marius was absent.

He realized he’d crushed the fabric of Marius’ cap in his hands and relaxed his clenched fists. He looked balefully at the cursed thing – all the pieces had been put together at least, but the whole was monstrous, even worse than the miserable hat Marius had been conned into purchasing at the start of this mess. Courfeyrac wouldn’t have thought such a thing possible, but the proof was there before him. He contemplated consigning the object to the flames of his fireplace – but no, the smoke would be intolerable, and Marius would want an answer for what had happened. Better to- to- to do he knew not what. He closed his eyes and rested his head back to think.

* * *

Several hours later, he was rudely awakened by a heavy object colliding with his chest.

“Oof,” said the heavy object.

Courfeyrac blinked back the haze of sleep, and the blur in front of him resolved itself into a face. “Marius, is that you?”

“I- yes, I’m afraid so,” replied Marius. He was blushing so deeply that even his ears had turned red. “I saw you sleeping in your chair, and I was afraid you’d catch a chill. I was trying to put a blanket over you.”

“Most friends would only go so far as to lend a piece of cloth, but I see you throw yourself into matters with rather more dedication,’ Courfeyrac joked.

Marius turned even redder, if that was possible. “It seems there was a book on the ground. I stepped on it and lost my balance. I truly am sorry – I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You are too good,” Courfeyrac told him sincerely. “It is my own fault for falling asleep where I shouldn’t have. You were trying to do me a good turn, and I thank you for it. But perhaps, now that we are both quite awake, we might find a more comfortable seating arrangement?

Marius seemed finally to remember that he was still sprawled on top of Courfeyrac. “Oh!” he exclaimed. He disentangled himself with a haste Courfeyrac might almost have found offensive if he hadn’t prompted it.

Standing at last, Marius gazed steadily at the floor, as he often did when he was embarrassed. Something down there caught his eye, and he bent to retrieve it. Too late, Courfeyrac realized that Marius had spotted the damning fruits of his doubtful labors. “Did you drop this, Courfeyrac?”

“Er. Well.” Courfeyrac supposed there wasn’t any point to denying it, much as he might have liked to. Delaying an explanation would only make him look all the more foolish. “I meant it for you, to replace the other you lost, until you could buy something better, but you see that my labors have not yielded triumphs and I must blush to confess authorship. Give it back, pray, and I will devise something better.”

He stretched out a hand to take the cap back, only just barely restraining the urge to snatch it out of Marius’ hands before his friend could really see what a sorry thing it was. But Marius, stubborn as ever, failed to take orders. His fingers bent tightly around the cap, and he studied it intently.

“You- you _made_ this?” he said at last. “For me?”

“I’m afraid so. But if you agree to forget it, I will as well, and we’ll all be the better for it.” Courfeyrac waggled his fingers to prompt Marius to return the cap. He was growing rather desperate.

Marius clutched the cap to his chest, as though afraid Courfeyrac would try to wrest it away from him by force. Perhaps he would, at that. “If it was meant for me, then it is wrong of you to try to take it back. You, you can’t be trusted, you might throw it in the fire or under another coach!”

“Don’t worry, I already resolved not to burn it!” Far from calming Marius, Courfeyrac’s words seemed to alarm him even more. He drew back a few paces from Courfeyrac, glaring at him. “Marius, you can’t truly want to keep it. Just look at it! Even _your_ taste can’t be that bad!”

The flared nostrils made their appearance; Marius was in a temper now. “I have a letter from my father, who loved his heartless son. I have a handkerchief from – from someone dear. The rest of what I own is so much trash. I have not so many treasures that I can afford to let you destroy one!”

Courfeyrac gaped at him. _Treasures_? Worse, something was happening to Marius’ eyes. They were, Coufeyrac realized with horror, growing decidedly wet. Marius rubbed at them fiercely with one hand, still clutching his prize with the other.

“My dear fellow,” Courfeyrac began. Marius interrupted him – fortunate, since Courfeyrac had no idea what to say next.

“Of course I will give you something in return, you mustn’t think me ungrateful. I will repay you as soon as possible, I swear, it is only– it is only that I have never before had something meant just for me.” Marius was wringing the cap in his hands now in distress, no doubt further distorting Courfeyrac’s poor stitching. “I had things which were mine, but it is not the same thing. Not at all.”

“I see,” said Courfeyrac carefully. He was not quite sure he did, but the important part was – “Then, you are pleased? I had not expected that.”

Marius nodded vigorously. He even essayed a small, tremulous smile. That last made Courfeyrac sigh in relief and relax. “Well, so long as you don’t wear it I don’t suppose it can do any harm.”

“Of course I will wear it!” exclaimed Marius. “And you must do the same once I have given you something in return. It is always so in books-“ Marius blushed slightly again as he cut himself off; he did not like to be seen as fanciful.

“Very well then, if it will make you happy.” There was, unfortunately, very little Courfeyrac would not do to make his friend happy.

Marius beamed, and Courfeyrac resigned himself to a sartorially uncertain future. Such were the sacrifices one made for friendship.

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE:**

“Courfeyrac, I must thank you. I don’t know what it is you’ve killed and thrown around your neck, but your only purpose can have been to make my face look handsomer by comparison. I consider myself a connoisseur of the ugly and grotesque in human life, but you have produced something hideous beyond the scope of my studies.”

“Shut up, capital R,” said Lesgle genially. “He’s right though, my friend. It’s hideous.”

Courfeyrac fingered the itchy woolen scarf slung around his neck. The yarn was blotchy, the stitches were uneven, and he suspected he’d already begun to break out into rashes where it touched his skin. There was little he could say in its defense. “Marius made it for me.”

“Marius has a subtler mind for revenge than I had realized,” said Bahorel. “Congratulate him for me!”

“If you need it to suffer an ‘accident,’” said Feuilly, “I can always use extra wool.”

“My thanks,” said Courfeyrac, “but I have given my word that I’ll wear it. Besides, what is friendship if it can’t make even the ugly things dear?”

“I’ve been telling women that for years-“ Grantaire began, and Lesgle elbowed him none-too-gently in the side.

“Play your hand, Grantaire, it is your turn and we are all more eager to learn about your cards than your conquests.”

“You may say that – you who already have a mistress. Or at least you have Jolllly’s.” Grantaire snickered. “An eagle sleeping beneath his landlord’s wings; that's droll.”

"You underestimate the power of friendship. I would not have thought that of you, capital R. Now Courfeyrac, it seems," continued Bossuet, "takes friendship a step too far. It is well to have all things in common, as Plato says, but that only goes for the good and not for the bad. Tell Marius you lost his scarf at cards and he will understand."

“He would not,” replied Courfeyrac. “Marius is firm in his resolves, even the wrongheaded ones. Besides, I find that I would be sorry to lose it.”

The whole company eyed him skeptically, but it was the absolute truth. Whatever effects he was having on Marius, Marius had evidently been effecting some on him as well. And oddest of all, Courfeyrac couldn’t say that he minded.


End file.
